The sunset came with sudden wind and then the rain. Here I am now, done with numbers and words, all judgments declaring whether one or ten will have a future. Recently, somebody from an evil city asked me that--- how could I do what I have been doing for a time now. I try to answer with a laugh at first, then "Seriously?", and perhaps if I see that the question warrants seriousness, I slowly ease into what cannot be understood by simplifications. It has to be shown and I have been showing the query the past six days.
1.
These things cannot be taught.
2.
They have be believed.
3.
They have to be done.
4.
They have to be seen.
5.
They have to come from you--- inside and you will feel that draining the whole time and the filling after.
6.
This milling is a matter of inspiration, a pouring of your essence, soul.
Of course it is exhausting. So where do I get my gasoline--- here, you see it, I'm holding it and I drink from it. All kinds of poison eating my liver to numb the exhaustion. Now and then a good conversation as I reach that stupor that brings me that sleep without the nightmares. Usually, poisoning becomes a matter of business: what cannot be discussed in the nine, ten, eleven, twelve hours that I'm occupied is then put on the table for dinner. More numbers, more words, more judgments on the future.
Here,now, in the news, the new President "P-NOY" of this country mucks through the same traffic that his countrymen crawls through every day. Without the sirens, it is a security nightmare, they say. I say,"Finally! A public servant that doesn't think s/h/it has special rights! Bravo!"
Now, here, I silenced the quacking of the phone. The duck now only beeps, it keeps on beeping, bah. I was asked yesterday what happened to Friday's Literature. Besides jilting a douchebag's loneliness--- do not mistake, he's a friend but dogs need to be taught how to bear their self-made loneliness without this bitch holding their paws--- I listened to sausages speak of how to change the Status Quo of Publication and Literature in this country.
How does one subvert the mode of production--- with a different material? A different aesthetics? With a different good old boy's club? With the same fetish for the literal feel of a page? Penniless grants? Alternative workshops? Rara in rooms? The duck that night quacked, "All talk and where's the walk?"
I shake my head...At questions like Ken's, "What was your story about?" Barbie's Heart In The Flesh, he says, is a succubus. "It's creative nonfiction," Adamant heckled. I laughed and shook my head: Was it Alex O who said that Creative Nonfiction is a file extension? There's truth in that.
Like Friday's Literature punctuated by quacks--- tracking human reports at 1 am (the same time electricity is traded sometimes) that say, "I survived." On to being the pom-poms with "Yay!" and "Kudos!" and the whip that says "Go!Go!Go!" Now here's something funny--- I get berated by these human numbers for being up at that time and you-should-rest.
Hee-Hee-Hee, I would say, Look at these little buggers asserting. And so I say cheers with more poison, Good yab! Good yab!
Saturday was still about this yab--- more 1,2,3,4,5,6--- and then it was onto a tribute to New Wave's Tazmanian Devil. Then Singapore's slam poetry being slammed. Then, There, Etits Kaposte--- this duo--- made me laugh and laugh about their woman woes. Etits Kaposte can make anyone piss in hilarity and some night Etits Kaposte will be in a marquee.
Yes, like friends having babies and getting married while, "You look the same" as Lala said or "Ten years and you haven't changed," Two-Nee-Nee said. It is true and not. What then? This thing called stepping. Vegas in September to topple reality. I look at time and I feel I am six hours behind. Perhaps now will be as it should be.
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